


Alone on the TARDIS

by EaglestarEC



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Football | Soccer, Love, M/M, Mild Language, Naked Cuddling, happy in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EaglestarEC/pseuds/EaglestarEC
Summary: Martha's asleep, the Doctor's bored and lonely. He goes to visit the TARDIS' cinema and guess who's on telly?





	1. Chapter 1

A bit of good ol’ human culture, that’s what he needed.

The Doctor let cool water run over his hands, bringing them up to his face as he washed away the shaving cream on his jaw. The brief swipe of a hand towel dried him off, and he peered at himself in the mirror, taking a moment to fiddle with the strand of his hair that had gotten wet and was now drooping in front of his nose. In a moment it was fixed—as in slightly less wet—and the Doctor flashed a brief smile at his reflection. Feeling refreshed, he turned and moseyed out into the quiet, tranquil corridor of his TARDIS.

Martha was asleep again, leaving the lonely Timelord by himself once more, and with nothing to do. Nothing that involved adventuring, of course—but that was the most enjoyable aspect of his life, so “nothing” seemed a decently accurate description in this case.

Listening to his somewhat irregular walking pattern echo through the hall, the Doctor gazed at the walls fondly, making his way down to a room he didn’t regularly use. At least the TARDIS would always be with him, companion or not. A brief idea flew into his mind that he might someday lose her and not be able to travel anymore, but it was pushed aside quickly. Not now, he told himself; he was in too good of a mood.

The door came up on his left. With a small spin the Doctor frolicked inside, the door automatically making way for him as he approached it. Beyond was the small—but impressive—personal cinema, that the Doctor had decided was a necessary component for his TARDIS a while back because of some bizarre adventure. It was capable of playing practically any media the Doctor could get his hands on, and sometimes all he had to do was think to get what he wanted. But right now he wasn’t feeling particularly picky.

With a brief thought of _anything, BBC,_ to the TARDIS, the large screen at the back of the room came to life. It was a football game, decently attended, but the Doctor was unfamiliar with the teams. Then again, he never really watched football anyway. Taking a seat in the dead center of the second to front row, he lounged back in the plush seats and watched the two color-coded groups of people run back and forth. A smile played at his mouth, eyes sparkling as he admired the way humans could get so enthusiastic about competitive sports. His mind went off on a tangent about how wonderful human life was, how awe-inspiring, yet simple—

A sudden realization sent a jolt through the Doctor, bringing him to full attention. He sat up as one of the cameras filming the event focused in on the players during a short break, a voice speaking over the crowd’s commotion—and his eyes locked onto the face of another Timelord. He knew who it was immediately. The Master, his dear friend and worst enemy.

What in Rassilon’s name was he doing playing professional football _?_

The Doctor’s eyes scanned over the Master’s face, his slightly unshaven jaw, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat that gave just the right amount of reflection to his cheekbones. His bleach-blonde hair was messy, his eyes a soft caramel color; but they never focused on the camera. Some part of him longed to be able to meet the Master’s gaze. Oh! And then a cheerful smile lifted the features of the usually solemn Timelord, and the sight of the rare gesture made the Doctor’s hearts skip a beat.

He felt a brief twinge of regret as the camera’s focus shifted, and the fleeting vision of the Master was gone.

There was no decision to be made about it; the Doctor was heading out of the cinema already. With a vague aura of playful confusion, the TARDIS shut off the screen, turning her attention to the Doctor’s sudden determined stride.

He speed-walked through the halls, an excited and nervous feeling that he couldn’t properly describe fluttering in his stomach. He knew where and when this game was being played, and he was nearly desperate for the presence of another person. And now, he had—by pure chance—found another Timelord. All consideration of what could possibly go wrong with this plan had completely slipped his mind.

A quick flick of a lever and a few taps on the keyboard brought the TARDIS into flight. The Doctor ran about in circles with enthusiasm, more than the usual spin or two mixed into the playful ritual. As the TARDIS shuddered to a standstill, the Doctor was already heading to the doors to fling them open.

As quickly as possible, he stepped out of the way as a projectile football sailed past his head and into the TARDIS. He had managed to neatly intercept it with his TARDIS on its way to the opposing team, and opened the door at exactly the right time. The Doctor only had a moment to marvel at his time-travelling expertise before the human who had been heading for the ball, eyes locked onto it in determination, tumbled into the TARDIS. Startled out of his trance, the human looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings and quickly tried to back out of the ship, only to collide with the person who had been set on pursuing _him_. Fairly quickly, the Doctor’s interference had turned into a big mess of players falling over each other in shocked confusion.

Hurriedly, the Doctor ran over to where the football had rolled to a gentle stop and tapped against the wall. With slightly shaky movements, he snatched it up and flung it just accurately enough to get it out of the TARDIS and back into play.

“So sorry, sorry, excuse me, right this way…” he spoke as he ushered the disoriented football players back out onto the field. Fortunately, they were too fazed to protest the Doctor’s pushing them about, climbing off of each other and stumbling onto the green grass to continue their game and try to forget the strange encounter.

As soon as the last man was out the door, the Doctor slammed it shut and bolted back to the console, his hands still shivering from the stressfulness of the situation. A little clumsily, he moved the TARDIS to phase out of the middle of the field, and phase back in off to the side, where he was out of the way. He prayed that the Master hadn’t noticed the embarrassing mistake.

Turning to lean back on the rim of the console, he focused on his breathing, slow and steady. His eyes drifted closed as he relaxed, reminded himself of why he came here in the first place, to find the Master and… something else, it didn’t seem to fit quite right.

“Doctor?” A fragile voice drifted in the air and reached the Doctor’s ears.

Perking up slightly and raising his eyebrows at the sound, the Doctor gave a small turn of his head to see Martha peering into the console room from around the doorframe. She was in her nightclothes and looked like she hadn’t planned on waking up.

“Where are we?” she continued, giving a small yawn and a few slow blinks.

“It’s fine, Martha, I was just—just tinkering with the TARDIS, so sorry that I woke you. I’ll try to be quieter,” he replied, his voice gentle but his tone making his explanation suspicious. The weary human nodded heavily, almost as if she were about to fall back asleep on her feet, but thankfully that was all it took to get her to turn and trudge back to her room. After waiting until the Doctor was sure Martha couldn’t hear, he let out a relieved sigh, and turned back around to exit the TARDIS.

The game seemed to be going smoothly, the Doctor’s previous interference all but forgotten. Another sigh of relief was loosed as the Doctor gently shut the door behind him, surrounded by the cheers of the crowd and the impact of the ball on players’ cleats. He scanned them for a familiar face, eyes flicking back and forth over the rapidly moving colors, but the Master seemed nowhere in sight. He began to worry that perhaps this was the wrong game; no, the team colors were the same and the TARDIS wouldn’t have gotten the time wrong. Would she?

The Doctor decidedly approached the edge of the field, where a few of the players were sitting on a bench; the Doctor figured they were taking a break or waiting to replace other players on the field—that seemed realistic enough. Sudden nervousness choked him up, making his step falter. What if the Master was one of the people sitting there, a mere meter or so in front of him…? So close, within reach…!

Someone jabbed the Doctor in the ribs with a sharp elbow, and he gave a squeak of surprise. Whipping around to look for the culprit, he found himself face to face with his target.

“Hey, what are you doing crashing the game?” the Master asked casually, taking a drink from a water bottle as he stood there in a relaxed position, hand on hip.

The Doctor found that his words had been stolen, swept away by the suddenly real vision of his friend standing right in front of him. There was no screen this time, blurring the quality and barring them from physical contact. He could simply take a step forward, and hug the Master if he wanted to. The notion was overwhelming. Looking rather stupid, he simply gazed at the other Timelord in awe.

The Master rolled his eyes at the Doctor’s reaction, taking the bottle out of his mouth. “Oh come on, I’m feeling like a proper conversation for once and you just ignore me. You know I saw your TARDIS land,” he added with a slight curl of his lip, forming into an amused smirk.

The Doctor flushed with embarrassment, forcing himself to stammer out, “M-Master…”

“Yes?”

He hesitated, turning himself to stand where he could let his gaze leisurely trail up from the Master’s feet all the way back up to his face. The tint in his cheeks faded slightly as he allowed himself to admire the warmth in the Master’s eyes, the contentment. “It’s good to see you again,” he commented in a small voice, meeting the Master’s gaze almost shyly. Though he really was genuinely overjoyed to lay eyes on his old friend, and it took all of his self-control to keep from pulling him into a tight embrace.

The Master looked briefly pensive, before nodding decidedly. “And you as well. Life was beginning to get a bit boring without you, if I’m being honest.” He took another gulp of the water before dropping it onto the grass lazily. “So why did you decide to drop in?”

“A-actually-…”

“Aw, were you looking for me? How sweet; I’m flattered.”

The Doctor had no response to this, his gaze flicking down to his feet to observe the scuffed white toes of his red converse. The Master’s tone had been blatantly sarcastic, but he was correct, and the Doctor had no will to tell him otherwise. The playfulness faded from the Master’s expression, to be replaced by a faint concern that the Doctor seldom saw anymore. Quickly his eyes were drawn to the Master’s face again, the uncharacteristic, soft expression leaving him no other choice but to look.

“Well, alright, just stick around for the rest of the game,” the Master spoke at last, feeling the need to take charge of the situation, as per usual. “It’s almost over. I’ll come back here when we’re done.”

The Doctor’s eyes trailed after the Master as he jogged back out onto the field, needed by his team once again. He allowed himself a weary smile, and stepped back to lean against the TARDIS where he could watch the game from a more relaxed position—hands stuffed in his pockets, and his heels crossing over one another. He watched the Master like a parent making sure not to lose their child, feeling a small bit of paranoia each time his gaze happened to be drawn somewhere else. If he somehow lost sight of the Master, and he went somewhere without the Doctor knowing, it was very possible that he might never be found again. This meeting was precious—though, the Doctor knew it would be somehow different than the others.

In all of his wandering thoughts and solid focus on the Master, he didn’t even bother to keep track of the score or the time. He was nearly startled out of his skin when a nearby referee violently blew a whistle, signaling the end of the game.

Quickly bringing his attention back to the Master, he noted that it wasn’t their team that was celebrating. He brushed the notion aside, figuring the Master couldn’t possibly be affected by losing a game devised by humans; he wouldn’t fall into that irrational disappointment that the others were obviously feeling. They were Timelords, and were bigger than that.

The Master broke off from the rest of his team, gently pushing away an arm that was holding him around the shoulders. They seemed confused, mouths moving to form words that the Doctor couldn’t hear clearly, but could only infer their concern from their expressions. As the Master labored forward in his direction, the Doctor allowed himself to rush up to meet him, eyes wide with worry.

“I’m fine, you twat,” the Master stabbed at him, brushing off the Doctor’s advancements into a hug.

“You’re hurt,” the Doctor remarked, seeming unperturbed by the Master’s insult. Concern knit his brows.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

The Doctor inwardly cursed himself for not noticing before. How was it possible for him to have missed something so important? No, the Master probably managed to feign being alright with such expertise that he hadn’t even needed to be taken out of play. He couldn’t blame himself for being fooled by that, but he did nonetheless.

“Come on, to the TARDIS with you,” the Doctor commandeered him towards the ship insistently.

“But-”

“Ah-ah, no buts.”

So the Master, begrudgingly, allowed himself to be ushered into the Doctor’s time-travelling vessel.

“It’s just a twisted ankle,” he protested gently as he was led through the maze of corridors. He was hushed by the Doctor, and strangely enough he was successfully silenced by the reassuring gesture.

The TARDIS opened the door for them, revealing the medical room. The Master was swept inside, powerless to do anything else with the Doctor’s steady hand at his shoulder, the other at his waist. Besides, he was tired; he had decided a while back that he would just let it happen.

But the Master had to roll his eyes when the Doctor started to bend to pick him up. “No,” he said simply, and pulled away from the other Timelord. The Doctor’s hands slipped off of him with no resistance, though there was no mistaking the tang of disappointment in the air at their loss of contact. The Master was beginning to piece things together in his mind, the pain in his leg nearly forgotten by now. The awkward stammering, the desperate need for contact, the mere fact that the Doctor had come to his game.

“Did you lose your companion, Doctor?” he asked, softly.

“N-no, of course not,” the Doctor’s head snapped up to meet the Master’s eyes, moving on to dismiss the topic as quickly as possible. “Could you come lie down?” He asked, gesturing to one of the beds against the wall. His gaze slipped and fell towards the ground when the Master didn’t immediately respond. “Please?”

Quietly, the Master limped over to the bed the Doctor indicated and swung himself up onto it, the springy mattress creaking under his weight when he settled. Remaining sitting upright, he watched the Doctor, patiently brushing his gaze over the freshly-shaven features of his fellow Timelord. Refusing to trust the Doctor’s dismissal of the subject, the Master continued to press him for more information.

“Then what’s going on?”

The Doctor tenderly stepped over to the side of the bed, his movements slow and calculated. He seemed weighted down by the question as he removed the Master’s right shoe as carefully as possible, nervous that he might make a sudden movement and hurt his friend more. The Master stifled a wince as the Doctor’s caring hand firmly felt his ankle, taking off his sock to reveal a bit of agitated puffiness around the injury.

“See? Just a twisted ank—”

The Master suddenly jerked away with a small squeak. The Doctor’s hands snapped back and he looked up at the Master in panic. “Master!? I’m—are you okay? I’m so sorry-”

With eyes cast downward, the Master curled his toes shyly and tried to ignore the embarrassed pink tint in his cheeks. “Tickles,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

A smile wavered at the corners of the Doctor’s mouth as he tried to hold back his amusement—the last thing he needed right now was to offend the Master in any way. “Sorry,” he murmured back, just as gently. After a moment to make sure the Master was alright with it, he continued his examination of the injury.

It was just—as the Master had insisted—a twisted ankle. However much of a relief this was, even a minor injury required proper treatment. With a sweeping movement, the Doctor let go of the Master’s ankle and stepped away from the bed. His friend watched him in a mixture of confusion and curiosity as he strode around the room with a purpose, making stops at various cabinets and drawers to pick up supplies. The trip cycled around the room and eventually made it back to the Master, and by then the Doctor had scooped up a cold patch, some cream, and a painkiller or two. The Master gave the certainly-overboard number of items a distasteful grimace.

“Could I just have the ice pack?” he asked hopefully, not particularly enjoying the feeling of being fawned over.

“Ridiculous,” the Doctor responded, and proceeded to spread some of the cream around the inflamed area of the Master’s ankle, then press the cold patch onto his skin, sticking it there. The patch was cool and soothing against the ache in his joint, and despite his outward irritation, he was grateful for the Doctor’s help.

Putting up with the attention, the Master allowed the Doctor to finish his treatment. When the other Timelord started to soothingly massage his foot, however, the Master yanked it out of his grasp with an indignant scowl, reminding him of the Master’s sensitiveness. The Doctor gave a warm smile, enjoying the rare moment where he was caring for the Master and the Master wasn’t really minding it, wishing that he knew how long it would last.

He hoped the Master would stay a while.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where are we going?”

“You’re absolutely filthy; where else would we be going?”

The Doctor rounded a corner, once again steering the Master down the hallways of his TARDIS. He scrunched up his nose and grimaced at the smell of the dried sweat on the Master’s skin. It was absolutely necessary that he get himself a shower, then change into new clothes—maybe even grab a bite to eat after that was done. The Master was sure to be peckish after that much physical activity.

“Why can’t I just shower at my own place?” the Master scoffed, just the tiniest bit annoyed by the Doctor’s actions.

This made the Doctor’s stride slow. “I didn’t think you had one,” he confessed, his voice gentle. Then he started again, accusingly, “hold on; what are you doing getting a place to stay on earth? Are you planning something again? Master-”

“No TARDIS, no purpose, what do you expect me to do? Besides, it’s just a small rented flat, nothing to get all up and arms about.” The Master rolled his eyes. “And no, no plans, just a bloke trying to get by.”

After a moment, the Doctor’s hands fell away from the Master’s shoulders. Suddenly it seemed like his assistance was less needed and more of a nuisance; the Master was a fully-grown Timelord who could function perfectly fine without the Doctor ever happening to interfere with his life. Did the Master even enjoy his company?

He came to a stop in the hallway, across from a door that automatically slid open when the Master approached it. The other Timelord took a brief moment to admire the TARDIS’ luxurious bathroom before stepping inside, and waving to the Doctor. He allowed himself a small wave back, but after the Master was out of sight, he leaned back against the wall and locked his gaze onto his feet. The wall was warm, humming faintly against his back; the Doctor could feel the life within the TARDIS, echoing all around him. She needed him, he needed her. The universe needed saving from disaster after disaster. Why, then, was he so affected by the idea that perhaps the Master didn’t need him?

The Doctor’s thoughts were interrupted and he was brought back to the present as the door to the bathroom slid open again. His eyes shot upward and immediately flicked downward again, blushing profusely as he noticed that the only thing the Master was wearing was a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Doctor, something’s wrong with the shower,” came the Master’s complaint, the exasperation in his voice betraying how fed-up he was.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, his gaze still fixed awkwardly on his shoes. Without looking up, he walked forward into the ostentatious bathroom, though he was only able to admire the floor tiles until he was clear of the Master’s eye-catching figure. Double-checking his mental blinders, the Doctor traipsed past the sinks and the tub to one of the showers at the back. He liked how human they were in design—for some reason he preferred the old water-and-soap methods compared to the more modern forms of washing. The image of the Master’s bare chest was pushed to the back of his mind, as he reached into the shower to turn the knob and start the water.

Nothing came. The Doctor gave it another twist or two, back and forth, with still no response from the shower head. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he glanced upward to address to the TARDIS inquisitively, _any issues with the water generator?_

The reply came back in the negative. The Doctor’s eyebrows sunk down further, though; he swore he sensed a hint of playfulness in her tone. What was she up to?

“The TARDIS doesn’t think there’s anything wrong,” he reported to the Master, stopping himself from turning to look at the other Timelord. Curiously, he approached a second shower and tried the knob there. It too was unresponsive. The Doctor gave a helpless shrug and turned away from the showers.

“Nothing I can do about it, sorry. The bath should work fine-…”

“Alright then.”

The Doctor met the Master’s gaze in surprise. It was unbecoming of him to accept such a— _oh,_ he paused, a small feeling of dread churning his stomach as his eyes found the Master’s playful smirk. _There’s something more._

“Why don’t you join me?”

There it was. The Doctor’s breath caught in his throat, breaking up his words as they tried to squeeze past his malfunctioning tongue. “I-I had—already I a-already, just washed,” he stammered quietly, bringing his hands up to his face to try to massage the redness out of his cheeks. Indeed, he had done a bit of personal care just before going to the TARDIS’ cinema. His wide brown eyes were glued to the Master helplessly, awaiting a response and hoping he wasn’t required to speak a second time. His tongue felt almost numb and he wasn’t sure he could make it work again.

The Master laughed warmly at the Doctor’s plight, earning an embarrassed scowl from the other Timelord. “No doubt you’ve worked up a sweat worrying over me, you poor thing,” he pouted in reply, somewhat mocking. Then he grinned slightly. “A second wash never hurt anyone.”

The Master took his right hand away from the towel around his waist, reaching out to grasp the knob next to the tub’s spout. A small twist and the water was pouring out easily, instantly at that comfortably warm temperature the Doctor liked. The Master used his free hand to support himself as he turned and sat on the edge of the spacious porcelain tub. He looked up at the Doctor, and the smile he offered was gentle.

“Come on, Doctor. These sort of baths weren’t made for lonely travelers,” he purred, having to project his voice over the sound of falling water. His tone drew the Doctor in, but he resisted stubbornly. He parted his jaw to say something, though his words fled him when the Master stood and left his towel behind on the side of the tub.

“My turn,” he whispered, and removed the Doctor’s tie. His movements were practiced and efficient as he unbuttoned the Doctor’s two layers of clothing, while the Doctor stood there paralyzed, mind reeling. The Master’s soft hands glanced off his skin as the Doctor shed his button-down shirt, not having noticed his suit jacket go. Caring hands were at his waist, trousers were abandoned on the tiled floor, and the Master pulled him unresisting into the warm, frothy water.

At first the Doctor assumed the Master’s actions were driven by lust, but after a moment his mind came to, fully realizing each affectionate touch the Master was giving him. The caresses were chaste, and gentle; the Doctor looked down to see the bubbles of soap being massaged against his skin. Almost as a shock, he regained the ability to move, and his right hand drifted up to the Master’s, casually stealing the soap out of his grasp.

“I told you, I already washed,” he protested softly, giving the Master a kind smile. His gaze was met and the Master smiled back, knowingly. No longer in possession of the soap, the Master had no choice but to lean back against the wall of the tub and let the Doctor knead the grime out of his skin. The water rose to their waist, and the Master was caught by surprise when the flow of it stopped automatically, leaving their surroundings a good deal quieter. The Master realized he had let down his guard, but for some reason that didn’t bother him.

Quietly the warm water lapped at the sides of the tub, small waves fleeing the movements of the two Timelords as they enjoyed each other’s presence. The Master guided the Doctor’s sometimes nervous hand over his abdomen—like a mentor showing their apprentice the proper feel of the trade—around his thighs, and across his weary legs. Playfully he splashed the water over the Doctor’s head, dampening his flyaway hair, and laughed softly. The Doctor smiled back, setting the soap aside and reaching for some nearby shampoo, the Master’s actions having reminded him of it.

“Not that bad, is it?” the Master inquired.

“No, Master.”

A soft smile. “Good, then.”

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed, in a cheerful haze as he lathered shampoo onto his hands.

Fingers combed through the Master’s hair, and he permitted it, closing his eyes in case the water made the soap drip down his forehead. His fellow Timelord was careful to catch any drops that strayed close to the Master’s eyes, sweeping them away with a gentle hand. The Master sunk down suddenly, startling the Doctor, and his head slipped under the water. Briefly the Doctor panicked, thinking he might drown; but the Master resurfaced quickly, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. He blinked repetitively, and gave the Doctor a challenging grin just before pushing himself forward to tackle the other Timelord.

The Doctor gave a squeak of startled surprise. Then they fell laughing into the water, spawning a large wave that crashed over the rim of the tub. A short battle followed, the two old friends splashing and circling around each other to engage in surprise attacks. It was almost painfully familiar.

After a while the childish quarrel settled, a noticeable amount of water having been transferred out of the tub and onto the floor beside it. A few waves still stirred up a current in the water, but the Doctor and the Master sat relaxed and still in each other’s arms. The Master was propped up by the wall, on his side, eyes closed as he lovingly held the Doctor close to his chest. The Doctor’s damp hair rested under the Master’s chin, curled up on his friend’s lap with his back fitting perfectly against the Master, like they were two pieces of a puzzle that had finally figured out they went together.

Peacefully, they slept.

***

When the two Timelords woke, there was a problem.

The Doctor realized it after he had dried off and stepped back into his semi-damp clothing. He took a moment to get his bearings, and the TARDIS had some news for him. It was a warning: Martha was awake.

“Scheisse,” he swore under his breath in German, and tossed his towel onto the Master’s head, then ran to the sliding door to push a button and lock it.

The Master pulled at the towel obscuring his vision, taking it off and wrapping it around his waist instead. “Something wrong?” he asked drowsily, and gave a small yawn. He kicked at his sweaty football uniform, left on the tiled floor in a forgotten heap.

“No, no, it’s fine,” the Doctor spoke in reassurance, though his attempt at sincerity wasn’t very good. “Just, stay here and be quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The Master looked up suddenly and scoffed at the Doctor’s command, sarcasm dripping from his voice in disbelief. “Ph, yes, Master!”

“Oh please,” the Doctor sighed and rolled his eyes, really not needing the Master’s games right now. “I’m trying to be discreet.”

“Oh?” he asked in a softer voice, still a bit condescending, but now considering that there might be a reason for caution. If not, there was certainly a reason to be interested.

A moment of silence followed as the Doctor hesitated. “Do you remember Martha?” he started cautiously, his voice almost a whisper.

“Well yes-”

“Keep your voice down!” the Doctor hushed the Master when he went to speak at normal volume. “Martha is here right now and I don’t want you two crossing paths again, it could be bad.”

The Doctor waited a moment, until the Master gave a small nod. Having made sure he was heard, he continued with his voice articulated and soft in an urgent, commanding sort of way. “You stay here, no noise, and I’ll figure something out in order to get her out of our hair… then I’ll bring you some clothes.”

The Master started to roll his head in irritation and step toward the Doctor to say something, but the Doctor put out a warning index finger and stilled him. The Doctor’s actions left a bad taste in the Master’s mouth that made him want to spit poisoned words back out at him, but he let his jaw close and tried to keep himself from scowling.

The Doctor’s eyes flicked back and forth over the Master’s face and he gave a small, almost despairing nod, turning to the door. He nearly walked straight into it, not remembering he had locked it; but the TARDIS protected him from that folly and opened the door for him, just wide enough for him to squeeze his skinny body past it. Once he was clear, the two panels slid shut behind him.

His head turned this way and that, looking down the hallway stretching in either direction. Reaching out to the TARDIS, he sent a thought her way. _Where’s Martha gone to?_ He asked.

In response, the Doctor received a memory of the interior of Martha’s room. Grinning with pride for his ship, he spared a moment to lovingly caress a beam on the wall before taking off down the hallway to his left. Part of him realized that he might be overreacting a little, but the thought was beat down to nothingness by the Doctor’s paranoia. Martha was great company—not to be misunderstood—he loved having her aboard the TARDIS, but the Master had just shown him more care than Martha ever could and he would never forgive himself if he let that slip away from him.

He passed the door; the thought had registered a few seconds late in his mind. Turning quickly to backtrack, the Doctor slowed to a normal walk, trying to allow himself time to catch his breath and not appear desperate before confronting his companion. Stopping, he turned to face the door to Martha’s room, his chest heaving as he took steady, deliberate breaths. In a moment he felt he was adequately calmed.

Just as he was about to step forward and knock, the door slid open for him. Martha was fully dressed, hair up in her short ponytail, ready for whatever the next adventure was going to throw at her. She took a step back at the unexpected sight of the figure towering in her doorway, looking up into the Doctor’s eyes and blinking a few times in surprise.

“Hey, Doctor,” she greeted him, a bit of awkward tension in the air. She gave a small chuckle to try and lighten it up. “You seem eager to leave.”

“No-” the Doctor started immediately, then bit his lip. “Sleep well?” he tried again, grinning cheerfully and stepping aside to let her past.

She nodded and took the gesture as an invitation to walk out of the room. “Yeah, fine,” she responded, then looked at the Doctor with casual curiosity. “What do you do when I’m asleep? You must get bored out of your mind.”

“I… sometimes sleep too,” he answered, hesitating only for a moment. It was, at least, half-true. “But actually, Martha, I need you to look into something, in the… London,” the Doctor tried his best, but his excuse still rolled off his tongue strangely. Martha gave him a small look of concern.

“Alright, but can’t we just look into it together?”

“Yes—well, no, you see they’ve ah, it’s in a hospital. They’ll find out I’m not human if I go, then the whole thing gets spoiled; absolutely ruined.” He made a slicing gesture with his hands moving in opposite directions, a theatrically grave expression harrowing his features.

Martha gave it a moment’s thought, her eyebrows slowly pressing together as she questioned the Doctor’s explanation in her mind. Luckily, she drew upon her many experiences where trusting the Doctor was a requirement in order to survive, no matter how strange his orders were; and she gave a slight nod.

“Okay then, just tell me what I have to do,” she replied with finality.

Internally, the Doctor breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. He walked with Martha back to the console room as he made up an alien problem on the spot explaining it to her in as much detail as he could manage. His words slowed down nervously as they passed the bathroom, part of his focus spared for trying to find noise coming from behind the door. The Master made no sound, if he even heard the conversation with Martha, and the Doctor continued down the hall with renewed confidence. Martha accepted the mission, the Doctor flew the TARDIS to a random hospital in London, and soon enough he was waving Martha off with wishes of luck.

The Doctor’s forced smile faded when Martha turned around, and he gently pushed the door closed, releasing a sigh of relief. He locked the door for good measure, then ran back to the console, dutifully flicking levers and pressing buttons to take the TARDIS to a separate planet—he would come back to get Martha at a time just a few minutes after he left, and that gave him all the time in the world to spend with the Master. The thought sent a pleasant shiver up his spine.

A resolute drum echoed throughout the ship, indicating her landing. The Doctor looked up, satisfied with his work, and happily went to go tell the Master it was okay to come out.


	3. Chapter 3

Laughter erupted and echoed through the corridor, and the Master doubled over as he fought to contain it. The sound was jovial, warm; something the Doctor wasn’t used to hearing from his old friend. He was caught by surprise.

“What?” the Doctor asked defensively, stopping in his tracks and frowning at the Master. He pouted as the Master trailed off into a chortle, only to burst out laughing again.

“You—you did _what?”_ the Master managed with a wheeze, after given a moment to quell his hysterical amusement. Nonetheless, a wide grin remained, which he flashed over at the Doctor. He began once more to walk down the path they were previously following, headed at a leisurely pace toward the wardrobe.

Patiently, the Doctor resumed his stride and repeated himself. “I dropped Martha off on Earth… so she’s… out of our way.” He gave small pauses that hadn’t been there before, trying to think back over the statement and see what the Master had found so outrageously funny.

The Master laughed again, but this time it was more controlled. “Sorry, but it sounds to me like you’re expecting something _will_ happen,” he explained, finally settling for a soundless smile. Concern arose, allowing him to momentarily push aside his amusement. The Doctor was most definitely showing signs of loneliness; perhaps something had happened between him and Martha. It brought a hint of smug satisfaction to the Master’s smile to think that the Doctor had favored his company over some other earth girl’s. Perhaps this strange thing between them was going somewhere.

The Master’s amusement was entirely snuffed out when his gaze locked back onto the Doctor.

“Are you not going to stay?” the Doctor asked gently, his dark brown eyes round and pleading. The Master felt a pang in his chest out of sympathy for that despairing, hopeful face. Part of him despised the sensation. If he wasn’t careful, he just might end up going soft.

“I’ve got nothing better to do; why should I leave?” he responded conversationally, rolling his eyes to dismiss his own emotions. Grinning, he glanced down at himself, still without proper clothing. “And I can’t walk out with just a towel, anyway.”

The Doctor seemed reassured. He relaxed, breathing a silent sigh of relief and letting his bright smile lift his expression again. “Right. Of course not. On we go.”

They visited the wardrobe, and the Doctor let the Master loose into the vast expanse of clothing to go find something he liked. The Doctor preoccupied himself by wandering to the back of the room, in a section where he kept things he didn’t really intend to wear. He slowly paced around the racks in the TARDIS’ dim light, one hand in his pocket; his eyes skipped over various garments, many of them bringing nostalgic memories to mind. Old relics from his childhood, previous regenerations and their distinctly different fashion choices. Rose’s jacket. The Doctor’s wardrobe had quite a few hidden stories to tell, but a good chunk of them were sad ones—too many. Quietly, he drew away from those racks and ventured back towards the center of the room, leaving his past behind in favor of those he had left in the present. In this case, that was the Master—to his knowledge, the only Timelord left in the universe, other than himself. Martha was there too, but something about them didn’t quite click; he found he was still far too attached to Rose. A weight lifted from his chest as he walked into the brighter area, able to see the winding staircase encircling the room and knowing the Master was hidden somewhere among all the muddled colors.

 But… perhaps too hidden. The Doctor looked around, mildly disturbed by the eerie, suffocating silence that had fallen over the wardrobe. He could not sense the presence of another person; it felt like he was alone. He hated being alone. The silence almost scared him, but he swallowed back nervousness and moved himself to start searching around, calling the Master’s name. It was a large enough place that perhaps the Master was too far off to be heard. Still.

After a few calls, the Doctor’s voice lost its momentum, trailing off pitifully to be swallowed by the silence. He slowed to an uneasy stop, overwhelmed with a rising fear and concern churning in his stomach, threatening to lift a small noise of distress up to his lips. His gaze flicked side to side, he turned around, and the Master was nowhere in sight.

Scratchy fabric fell over his head, snuffing out the light and ripping a scream from the Doctor’s throat. Desperately he clawed at the cloth, hoping to find some escape from the darkness he had been plunged into. He could feel his heartbeats pounding, loud in his mind; he cursed himself for trusting his old friend so readily.

The thick blanket fell away at his first pull, freeing a clear, hearty laugh to ring in the Doctor’s ears. Shaken and distressed, his eyes flicked upwards to find its source. He wasn’t sure what to feel when his gaze settled onto the Master, who was dressed in a casual blue Gallifreyan day-robe and bent over a railing on the second floor, guffawing.

For some reason, the Doctor allowed himself to relax, but not to find even a morsel of humor in his current situation. The Master had scared him and was now laughing in his face; that seemed like a cruel way to treat a friend. Though, he had concluded a while ago that the Master’s morals concerning friendship had been twisted.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he explained patiently, not permitting himself to reveal his discomfort other than the twinge of hurt in his voice.

“Well I see it’s hilarious,” the Master replied raucously, grinning, his cheeks red from lack of air.

The Doctor’s adrenaline rush started to die down, and he decided to forgive the Master for his actions, once again. Holding a grudge would do neither of them any good. He tossed the blanket that had been over his head onto a nearby rack, not bothering to go find where it belonged. Organization wasn’t very appealing to him in the first place. “I see you found something,” he added as a polite comment, calm. It still took a moment before he could turn back around to look up at the Master.

“Yes; you’re quite the nostalgic fellow, keeping all those old robes. I doubt you wear them,” the Master responded as he gave a small spin, looking down to admire the familiar Gallifreyan outfit. By now, he had put his amusement aside for the Doctor’s sake. With a final smile down at the blue robe, he strode back up to the railing, and leaned on it casually while meeting the Doctor’s upturned gaze. “So, what do you plan to do with me _now?_ ” he asked with a sly smirk, turning slightly and brushing his hair back to strike a mockingly enticing pose.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but smiled at the Master’s comedic display. The other Timelord seemed more upbeat than when he was stuck in the bathroom, and the fact that his irritability hadn’t lingered long was a great relief. The Doctor would rather have this mischievous version of the Master than an angered one. He managed to suppress memories and an unnerved shudder before speaking up in reply.

“Well,” he began, bringing a hand up under his chin in thought, “I thought we could pop on over to a café or something, maybe grab a bite to eat. Hungry?” With hope-filled eyes, he presented a questioning grin up to the Master.

After a moment, the blonde Timelord shrugged with indifference. “Sure. If you pay.”

“Of course, Master.” The Doctor gave an amused smile, sounding as if the point needn’t have been made.

Some might have seen the Master’s unenthusiastic comments and bored compliances as inconsiderate, or mocking. But to the Doctor, even having his requests listened to was uncommon—when coming from the Master. The Master’s agreement made him just as happy as if one of his companions came to him, bouncing up and down in excitement. With a gleeful grin as wide as ever, the Doctor pranced up to meet the Master at the bottom of the stairs. He was met with a few exasperated eye-rolls, but that was alright. What excited him most of all was the simple fact that he got the Master to spend more time with him—just two friends, no world-domination issues between them, out for lunch.

He also hoped, quietly, to execute a surprise of his own.

The two walked down the corridor, the Doctor in his usual suit and tie from Earth, and the Master wearing his choice outfit from Gallifrey. The Doctor smiled wider, barely suppressing a giggle when a blue sleeve weaved between his side and his arm to hook around his elbow as they walked. Without turning his head—because then the Master would most likely let go—the Doctor observed that the tips of the Master’s fingers barely peeked out from the cuff of the sleeve; the robes were too big for him. He kept his eyes glued to the end of the hallway, his smile uncontrollable, and certain that his cheeks were the color of roses.

“So in what part of London is this café?” the Master asked after a moment, a bit of his exasperation with the Doctor’s human obsession bleeding through into his tone.

“Do you live in London?”

“No. Too crowded,” he answered easily, but looked up at the Doctor in confusion. It was obvious his question had been avoided. He quietly thought to himself that perhaps he subconsciously avoided London, because he knew the Doctor visited there frequently. Strange, how now when he thought back on it, he found it difficult to re-understand his reasoning. “Don’t tell me you trusted the TARDIS to find us someplace to eat.”

“No, no, where’s the fun in that? Sure she knows some good places but she doesn’t know you that well.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Don’t I?” the Doctor shot back with gentle mischief, looking over at the Master with a slight smirk, almost challenging. The Master became indignant.

“Okay, you’re the only other Timelord, but that doesn’t automatically make you my best friend,” he retorted, tongue sharp.

The Doctor tried not to look stung by the Master’s piercing words as his smile faded, expression becoming neutral. His gaze dragged back over to the closest thing directly in front of him as they turned a corner. “I thought we were at least friends,” he offered, softly. Too sappy and the Master might just rebuke him again.

Almost a relief, the Master didn’t respond. The Doctor revived a bit of his smile and enjoyed the Master’s hand on his arm, knowing that the other Timelord’s silence wasn’t an agreement, but wasn’t a denial either. He could live with that. Quietly, the Doctor led the Master, his self-proclaimed friend, down to the softly lit console room. The organic look of his TARDIS pleased him, and he could tell that she quite liked it too. It felt all the more like home, and the fact that the Master was here made it all the more refreshing. Something warm and pleasant made his hearts flutter at the realization.

“Doctor?”

The Master’s interjection brought the Doctor’s mind back to the present—an accomplishment in and of itself. He seemed playfully irritated. “Don’t just stand there, be a gentleman and open the door for me.”

With a short laugh, the Doctor smiled and reached forward to grasp the handle of the TARDIS door. “Yes Master,” he added, matching the Master’s playfulness. He received a small cheerful eye-roll in return.

The Doctor’s hand suddenly faltered, remembering the surprise he had spontaneously thought up a while ago. He turned to the Master, slipping his arm out of the other Timelord’s grasp and positioning himself in front of the still-closed door.

“What?” the Master asked, now properly irritated.

“It’s a surprise,” the Doctor said, mentioning the reason for it before giving a command, figuring this was the best way to try to appeal to someone like the Master. “You need to close your eyes.”

The Master scoffed. “Ridiculous,” he protested in annoyance, folding his arms. The Doctor looked back at him with his dark brown eyes wide as saucers. The Master resisted for a few moments, meeting the Doctor’s pleading gaze with determination. Then he gave in, sighing and closing his eyes.

“Right then, here we go!” the Doctor said with a little bounce, trying to contain his excitement. “I’ll tell you when to open them.” Pushing aside any thought, the Doctor reached for the Master’s hand, and dragged him out into a throng of marketplace activity. The Master felt swept away in the Doctor’s grasp, breathless and plunged into the moment with no preparation at all. His world was dark, he was blind and the Doctor was his guide. They cut through a crowd of various limbs and fabrics, languages of all types filling up the air around him like music in a dense sheet of brilliant sound. They were everyone else’s and his own at the same time; the handiwork of the TARDIS. It took him a few stumbling steps more to fully comprehend this.

“We’re—we’re off-planet!” he exclaimed, finding his own voice amidst the commotion. Some strange will forced him to keep his eyes closed. There was no response from the Doctor, but the Master could sense his pleased grin. The Master felt himself grinning, too.

They stopped their wild sprint, and the Master could hear the Doctor’s faint panting close by. A hand was around his waist, and he was spun—held close against the Doctor’s chest, his left arm crossed over to hold the Doctor’s right hand. Warm breath faintly tickled his ear; his hearts leapt up in his throat.

“You can open them now, Master.”

The Doctor’s gentle encouragement allowed the Master to at last reveal the surprise. They _were_ off-planet; before him was a bustling scene where a variety of humanoid species flowed around the two Timelords, and he could see a quaint establishment close by. It was comfortably attended, a few aliens perched around the tables set up outside, eating and conversing. This was evidently the café the Doctor had intended to bring him to.

Speaking of which. “Do you like it?”

The Master looked up slightly, catching a glimpse of the Doctor’s chin out of the corner of his eye. Target in sight, he turned back around, pulling his right arm free to scoop up the Doctor’s jaw and draw him into a sudden kiss. The Doctor went rigid against him, and he felt fingers slowly unweave themselves from his left hand out of shock. Carefully, he pulled away from the Doctor’s lips, and without his support they fell slack.

“It’s satisfactory.” The Master locked his gaze onto the Doctor’s, a soft smile forming. He couldn’t help it when the other Timelord looked so much like a deer caught in the headlights, his cheeks burning as he stared back at the Master with surprise frozen on his face. With a small chuckle, the Master’s hand fell away from the Doctor’s jaw and he turned to walk into the café.

In a trance, the Doctor’s feet moved of their own accord to follow in the Master’s wake. Blinking a few times, he lowered his head and brought his fingertips up to his lips, brushing them softly to the side. His mind was stuck in a torrent of chaotic thought, unable to focus on one thing at a time. There was no door on the café, but the lighting became softer as they entered; the Doctor hardly noticed. He was so overwhelmingly happy that it took him about this long for a grin to catch up.

He forced himself to relax into a smile by the time they had been directed by an insectoid waitress and seated at an indoor table. It was a table for two, but the shape of the table was triangular, so that the two seats were next to each other rather than across. The Doctor preferred this arrangement, because it meant no matter which edge they chose to sit at, the Master would be close by. The Master rolled his eyes, for however well the Doctor thought he could contain himself, he was still smiling like a loon.

“You look ridiculous,” he commented, then focused his attention on a digital menu that was incorporated into the table at each of the places.

“What’s wrong with ridiculous?” the Doctor said, carefree. He didn’t bother to look for something to order, he only had eyes for the Master.

“Remember you’re the one paying for this,” he added while scrolling through.

The Doctor wished the Master would look up to address him, while he also dreaded the thought of eye contact. He fancied that maybe the other Timelord was embarrassed, and his devoted attention to the café menu was an excuse to avoid the Doctor’s gaze. That thought was immediately tossed aside when the Master filed his order and deactivated the menu, lifting his gaze up to the Doctor’s face with a polite smile. His casual gesture made the Doctor’s hearts flutter; the Master wasn’t nervous at all. He always seemed so sure of every action he decided to take—what an admirable trait!

“So why did you decide not to go to some café on Earth?” the Master asked, almost hopeful.

The Doctor took a moment to realize that he had been asked a question. “Oh—well, I figured you were tired of humans,” he answered after coming to with a start. “And I was as well, to be honest. Variety is the spice of life, they say.”

“That’s a human saying,” the Master pointed out with a smile that held back a laugh. “But thank you, I really did need this—leaving Earth. It’s a bloody nuisance to be grounded, especially having to live with the humans’ ridiculous society… they don’t even have any decent transport! Any of that would be locked away somewhere in UNIT gathering dust, and you know I could never get in there...”

The waitress came to the table, delivering a drink and the Master’s order to his spot at the table. She turned to the Doctor, and spoke in a strange language to him, questioning.

“No, not yet,” the Doctor replied, realizing somewhat sheepishly that he had been too busy to take a look at the menu. “I’ll, uh, get back to you on that.” This satisfied the alien creature, and she left.

“Don’t let me keep you from eating,” the Master commented, taking a taste of the scone-like food item on his plate, decorated with vibrant exotic fruits. He nodded approvingly, and began to eat it readily with the appropriate utensil. The Doctor stole a last, brief glance at the Master before lowering his gaze to the space before him, where the menu was displayed on the table. He scrolled through, looking at options though his mind was entirely elsewhere; he ended up tapping something that looked tasty enough, not giving his choice a second thought.

With a sloppy grin, he dismissed the digital menu and placed his hands in his lap, looking up at the Master again. “I had hoped you would like it.”

The Master paused after a bite of his snack to look over. He could tell that this wasn’t all that the Doctor wanted to say. “Go on?”

“I was—” the Doctor started, the prompt unexpected. He was relieved when another question came to him. “How’s your ankle?”

It was the Master’s turn to be caught off-guard. He peered down under the table at his treated ankle, which he hadn’t even taken notice of since their bath. Surprised at his own realization, he resurfaced again. “Better,” was his blunt response. The Doctor nodded, pleased that the injury had been well-treated, but his gaze did not meet the Master’s. It was obvious something was on his mind.

“How—um… how about you, no, we I mean—agh…” The Doctor felt his cheeks get warm, and he brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in embarrassment. His words had chosen the worst time to stop working.

The Master waited patiently, intrigued. He gave a short nod of encouragement.

“Sorry, I meant to say… w-what if we do this… again. As in, not just this once.” The Doctor lifted his gaze to meet the Master’s, peering over the edge of his hand. His palm was effectively covering the flush in his cheeks, and he was unwilling to take it away. “More often,” he added, weakly.

The Master reached over, gently peeling the Doctor’s hand away from his face and slipping it into his own. The Doctor hesitantly let him, knowing full well that the Master could now see how much he was blushing. This, somehow, did not bother him.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?” The Doctor squeaked nervously.

“You have a problem—an endearing one—but a problem with not knowing how to say what you want,” the Master explained in a steady voice. The Doctor felt a little childish with the Master holding his hand. “Or are you just like that around _me_?” At this, the Master grinned mischievously.

“I—I don’t know what you—” The Doctor was flustered.

“Hush,” he soothed. “I’m in a good mood, I promise. Just tell me outright.”

The Doctor felt drawn into the Master’s hypnotic voice, but he refused to be controlled by it. He would allow himself to be comforted and would comply, but by his own conscious free will. Suddenly determined, the Doctor distanced his mind from the Master’s deceptions and allowed himself to think on his own. Yes, he knew what he wanted. The Master had just needed to encourage him to find the right words.

“Would you—travel with me, Master?” He spoke slowly, nervous but hopelessly desperate for a yes. He waited on the edge of his seat for the Master to respond.

His old friend grinned, and playfully cuffed the Doctor’s ear, chuckling. “Now how would that work, Mr. Clever? You already have a companion!”

The Doctor smiled, but was not deterred. His most impossible dream was almost within reach. “I don’t,” he murmured, grinning like a child who got away with something. “I have all the time in the world to spend with you.”

“Then… what the hell,” the Master said with a shrug, smiling afterwards. “Yes.”

The Doctor embraced the Master suddenly, nearly knocking the other Timelord off his chair.

But that was alright.


End file.
